


The Long Night

by ClandestinePen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, M/M, Shower Sex, Smut, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:39:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClandestinePen/pseuds/ClandestinePen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Completed for narissasaunders for the November JohnLockChallenges Gift Exchange. Prompt: Vamplock turning John.</p><p>After an investigation goes wrong, John learns things about Sherlock he never thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Night

Night had fallen; Sherlock Holmes could feel it in his bones. His muscles twitched to life and his awareness returned. More than returned. If pressed, he would compare waking each day to the rush that cocaine used to give him years ago. Over a century ago. The high greeted him at each sunset, but it was fleeting and quickly replaced with thirst.  
  
Most days the thirst was manageable, but it was always there. He would remain a junkie -- alternating between the high of waking and drinking, and the low of need and thirst -- until the end of time. That night, though, the thirst burned his throat down into his chest. Even his fingers tingled with need. He would have to drink, or his instinct would take over. It was time.  
  
Upstairs, although he didn’t know Sherlock was merely two storeys beneath him, John Watson was bent over his laptop. His fingers skimmed over the keys again and again as he typed. The blog entry was beginning to come together, but John’s mind wouldn’t stay focused.  
  
His thoughts drifted to his sometimes-flatmate, Sherlock. Truth be told, Sherlock was more absent than present in 221B Baker Street. At least, John thought so. It had been one of the caveats Sherlock mentioned about flatsharing when they first met, along with keeping odd hours when he did appear and playing the violin for hours on end. At first, John thought he made out rather well on the deal. He had to pay half the rent on a flat he mostly lived in alone. Then, he got to know Sherlock.  
  
And now when Sherlock was away, John missed him.  
  
Not that he would ever say that to Sherlock.  
  
Still, most nights (because Sherlock only seemed to show up when most people were getting ready for bed) John found himself sitting in his chair watching the door, hoping to see the familiar tall and lean form of his sometimes-flatmate come walking in.  
  
That night, John got his wish.  
  
“Patterns,” Sherlock said as he burst through the door.  
  
“China patterns?” John asked. By now, he was quite used to Sherlock beginning a conversation somewhere in the middle.  
  
Sherlock scowled. “Serial killers. They like patterns. They need the patterns. Without it, the killing is just killing. The patterns make it into an art. The patterns announce to the world that the killer is clever. Genius needs an audience, John.”  
  
“So I’ve noticed,” John said, rising from his chair to make tea. It sounded like he had a long night ahead. He grinned inwardly.  
  
“This killer that Lestrade has been after, the only pattern the police could decipher is the black tape across the victims’ eyes.”  
  
“Right.” John put the kettle on to boil.  
  
“But that is the pattern the killer is leaving intentionally. There is always more to it, the pattern the killer leaves without meaning to.” Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace as he spoke.  
  
“You mean finding what links the victims, right? Seeing the pattern in his choice.”  
  
Sherlock paused for a moment to give John a look of approval. “Very good,” he said, genuinely impressed. John smiled back, pleased with the compliment. But the moment passed quickly, and Sherlock was back to his monologue. “The police can’t find the connection, but I have. I found clues in each of the victim’s homes, so to speak, and only when they are viewed together do they make sense. First, you have the middle-class mother of three. What could she have in common with a homeless teenager, a high powered banker, and the retiree with the little yappy dog? Her tattoo: the number 26.2. Marathon runners commonly get the number tattooed as a way to mark their achievement to the world. She was a runner, but she didn’t own a treadmill nor a jogging buggy. So, she must have ran either in the early morning before the family arose or at night after her husband was home to look after the children. I favor the nighttime theory based on the flowers she planted in her garden. Mirabilis jalapa, Oenothera biennis, and Ipomoea are all species that only bloom in the late evening. The teenager would have been walking as well, obviously, and at late hours on the nights the shelter was full. The retiree had the dog to walk, sometimes even late at night to avoid listening to the young couple in the adjoining flat have a row several nights a week. She filed several complaints with the landlord before her death. And finally we have the banker. He was the one that was difficult to work out, until I looked through his computer’s music files. He recently downloaded podcasts intended to listen to while jogging. Also recently broke up with a girlfriend, in his desk drawer I found a mobile bill that recently had a second line terminated along with half a dozen pub receipts from the two weeks prior to his death. He was most likely feeling low on self esteem and wanted to take off a few pounds. The connection is that all of the victims had a reason to be walking the streets late at night. The next thing to do was draw a 2 mile radius around each victim’s home. In the case of the teenager, I chose a frequented shelter. The circles all intersect at one place.” Sherlock pulled a map out of his pocket and shoved it into John’s hand.  
  
“A footbridge?” John asked.  
  
“That’s where the killer finds his victims. He somehow convinces them to get into his car, and the next morning there is a fresh body in an empty flat somewhere in London.”  
  
“That’s brilliant, Sherlock!” John smiled that proud smile that Sherlock memorized and tucked away to recall on nights when he had to stay away. “Shall I phone Lestrade?”  
  
“Why? Did you want a night in?” Sherlock teased.  
  
“Not really.” John stirred his tea as he played along. “Lestrade would need more evidence first, anyway.”  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “And there is also the matter of the killer’s timing. The murders don’t coincide with a calendar, but with a lunar chart. According to my lunar chart, tonight’s the night.”  
  
With that, Sherlock swept past John toward the door. He knew John would make it down the stairs and onto the pavement by the time Sherlock managed to flag down a cab. Then they would be off to find a killer. Only this killer wouldn’t be turned in to the police. Not alive, anyway.  
  
~~~  
  
 _What exactly am I looking for over here?_  
  
Someone luring a victim into a vehicle. I thought we went over this. SH  
  
 _We did but there aren’t very many people or cars._  
  
Do your best. I can’t be on both sides of the bridge. SH  
  
 _Prat._  
  
 _How long do you think it’ll be?_  
  
Bored? SH  
  
 _Aren’t you? You always say you are._  
  
Never bored when I’m hunting with you. SH  
  
 _Is that a compliment? I’m flattered._  
  
Less texting. More observing. SH  
  
 _You said hunting with me. Do you still take cases alone?_  
  
 _Of course. You must do. Why this case with me?_  
  
 _Am I your back up? Do you just ring me up on the dangerous ones?_  
  
You like the dangerous ones. SH  
  
 _I like all of it Sherlock. We don’t always have to be in danger._  
  
 _Mild peril is fun, too._  
  
If you came every time you’d get bored. SH  
  
 _If it doesn’t bore you it sure as hell wouldn’t bore me._  
  
I spend most of my waking hours working. You know that. SH  
  
 _I know. You don’t have to work alone. If you don’t want. That’s all._  
  
Are you still working now? SH  
  
 _Yes. Still no car picking up any joggers. You?_  
  
Still quiet. SH  
  
 _Hang on. I’ve got something over here. Not the killer._  
  
What? SH  
  
 _Lost kid. Might have to abort the mission until I can call the police. Parents these days._  
  
John do not talk to that child. SH  
  
John did you get that message? SH  
  
Stay where you are. Don’t come out. I’m on my way to you. SH  
  
~~~  
  
Rain was starting to fall from the sky, and Sherlock cursed every drop as he ran. When he reached the other side of the bridge, he smelled John. John everywhere. But the actual man was gone. Sherlock spotted red taillights disappearing around a corner.  
  
A topographical street map appeared in his mind. Empty flats. One way streets. Traffic patterns. With a speed Sherlock normally never used in the city, he sprinted after the car.  
  
~~~  
  
John came to slowly, his head aching with the latent effects of the inhalant used to subdue him. He was on his side, his face pressed against a cold tile floor. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sealed closed. He tried to lift his hands to rub his eyes, but they were restrained behind his back. Running his finger along the edge of the tie, he recognized the smooth, textured surface. Duct tape.  
  
Damn.  
  
“I usually tape the mouths, but I don’t think I’ll need to with you. A soldier wouldn’t scream, would he?” The voice came from behind him. It was low and menacing, but amused.  
  
John stayed silent.  
  
“You’ll be happy to know that he’s treated well otherwise. The boy. Dropped him off at home on the way here. Bet he’s probably playing one of those violent video games he begged me to buy. He’s been with me so long he calls me ‘papa’ now. Isn’t that sweet?” Footsteps echoed as the man approached. “He was living rough, and I took him in. Saved his life. It’s nice, as a child, to have someone to look after you.”  
  
The footsteps stopped just inches from John’s face. He concentrated on his breathing. Four counts in. Four counts hold. Four counts out. Four counts hold.  
  
“Do you know how long I’ve been fishing for Sherlock Holmes? I had to add in the duct tape because no one noticed otherwise. I doubt Mr Holmes would have paid attention even with the duct tape before I killed one of his favorite street rats. But now I have you, his pet. He’ll come for you.”  
  
One-two-three-four-one-two-three-four-one-two . . .  
  
“Do you know what he is, John Watson? Has he told you? I bet he hasn’t.”  
  
two-three-four-one-two-three-four-one . . .  
  
“He’s a monster. I watched him kill my father thirty years ago. Now I bet you think I’m crazy. How could Sherlock Holmes have killed a man three decades ago? He would have been a child himself! I’ll tell you. He is an actual monster. You haven’t been with him long enough to notice, but he doesn’t age. He never gets older. And he never stops killing. I’ve read your blog, Dr Watson. You think you’re special, but you’re not. Once he gets bored of you, he’ll kill you too. He’ll want to do it himself, of course. Which is why he’ll come for you. He’s reserved the right to end your life.” The voice dropped to a whisper, and John could feel the breath of each word as it was spoken directly into his ear. “But I’m going to take that from him. Then I’m going to take his life, if that’s what it’s called.”  
  
“It is life.” Sherlock’s voice echoed out into the room. John heard his kidnapper gasp and step back. “Didn’t you learn the seven life processes in primary school? I do all seven, thus I do live.”  
  
“We meet again. Do you remember the last time we saw each other?” The man stepped around John, walking behind him toward the direction of Sherlock’s voice. John started working at the tape around his wrists.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then you know what happens now. You took my father’s life, and ruined mine. Now I take your life and John Watson’s.”  
  
“You’ve taken so many lives already, Jimmy.” Sherlock sounded amused, but John could hear the tension in his words.  
  
“So have you.”  
  
“Your father wasn’t an innocent man.”  
  
“Who made you into a god?”  
  
“I am not a god, but I don’t take lives without reason. Do you know what your father was doing to those young women?”  
  
“You don’t get to choose who lives and who dies!”  
  
“The world was a better place without your father in it. It will be a safer place for late night joggers without you in it,” Sherlock said.  
  
“And what about you? You think the world is a better place with you in it? How many lives have you taken? How long have you even been alive? At least sixty years, but maybe longer. Am I right?” Silence. “You underestimate me if you think I don’t know how to kill you. I know the usual ways won’t work. But I’ve had my whole life to plan this night. I’ve asked around. You can’t win.”  
  
“If you’re so confident, then why speak to me at all? Why not kill me on sight?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.  
  
“Because I want to savor this. I want to make it last. Most of all, I want to hear you beg for your life, the way my father begged for his.”  
  
“You shouldn’t be able to remember that,” Sherlock remarked.  
  
“Maybe you’re not as good at that hypnosis thing as you think you are.”  
  
“Something to think on,” Sherlock said. “Now then, I’m getting bored. Let’s toss the man out back and you can try to show me how you intend to go about killing me.”  
  
With the mention of his name, John froze the movement of his hands in case the killer, Jimmy, were to turn around and look at him. He’d managed to stretch the tape a little, but not nearly enough to get free.  
  
“I don’t think so. The doctor stays.”  
  
“He won’t be able to identify you. You’ve been careful to make sure he hasn’t seen your face.”  
  
“That isn’t what he’s here for.”  
  
“If you think yourself capable of killing me what does it matter if I see you hurt him or not? He was the bait. He’s served his purpose. Enough blood has been spilled between us.”  
  
“That’s not the point. You are a monster and you carry on being a monster because you never have to see the destruction you leave behind. So I’m going to show you.”  
  
John heard the click of the hammer being pulled back, then a crash as Sherlock tackled Jimmy to the ground. In a burst of raw adrenaline, John scrambled to his feet, braced himself, and yanked his hands apart as hard as he could. Over the struggle happening beyond his taped-up eyes, John heard a tear. It was enough, just enough, to wiggle his right hand out. Sherlock let out a pained scream as John pulled the tape off his left hand and face.  
  
The two other men were on the floor, facing away from John. Jimmy wasn’t a big man, maybe an inch or two shorter than John with none of the solid build earned with years of physical exercise. Yet he was straddling Sherlock, somehow overpowering him. Wisps of smoke rose from under Jimmy’s hand held against Sherlock’s neck.  
  
In a swift, trained, motion, John reached behind and took the gun he kept tucked between his trousers and back into his hand. He steadied it in front of him and took aim. Jimmy never even looked up, never noticed that his prisoner was now free. The last thing Jimmy saw of this world was a look of pain on Sherlock’s face. Maybe he would have wanted it that way.  
  
Sherlock jumped to his feet and stared down at Jimmy, bleeding onto the floor. His mind raced. But more than that, his throat was on fire. The burn of the silver Jimmy held against his neck had depleted his reserved control, and now there was blood pooling at his feet.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock. Let me take a look at that,” John said, taking a step forward.  
  
“Don’t!” Sherlock held up his hand and kept his gaze away from John.  
  
“What did he do to you?”  
  
“Stay back, John. Please.”  
  
Sherlock had to drink. He had to drink. If he didn’t drink that very second, he would lose control. John would be hurt. But if he drank in front of John . . . Sherlock bent down and grabbed Jimmy’s upper arm.  
  
“What are you doing, Sherlock?”  
  
He started to pull the body (heart still beating, blood coming out in spurts, still so warm) across the floor, but it was heavy. No, Sherlock was weakened by the silver. But he had to get the body to a drain.  
  
John stepped forward again.  
  
“No, John! You can’t touch the body. You’re already all over this crime scene.”  
  
“Then what difference does it make?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“No. Not when you need me.” John put the gun safely under his waistband and took the other arm. Blood from the chest wound spurt out afresh as John pulled the weight with more ease and purpose. “Where are we taking it?”  
  
“Bathtub.”  
  
Once there, they tossed the torso into the tub. Sherlock bent over the body, his hands trembling. He was so close to relief. The scent was intoxicating.  
  
“Look away.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer (which was “No.”) before he bent to drink from the wound.  
  
~~~  
  
Two hours before dawn, Sherlock and John arrived back at Baker Street. In that time, aside from instructions involving cleaning up the crime scene, the men didn’t speak to each other.  
  
“Are you . . . do you . . . you shower first,” John said.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“You have to go, before the sun comes up, don’t you?” John chose each word carefully.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then you shower first. I’ll start a fire, and burn our clothes.”  
  
“John . . .”  
  
He held up his hand. “Shower first.”  
  
Sherlock nodded in agreement, and slunk away.  
  
The warm, full feeling he usually felt after drinking was absent, replaced with a cold emptiness. The relationship he had with John was over. He could no longer be the flatmate that gave John the danger outlet he needed. John would no longer wait for Sherlock to show up so they could run around London chasing criminals. John wouldn’t fall asleep in his chair listening to Sherlock play violin, or call Sherlock “brilliant” or “amazing”. He wouldn’t take lives that threatened Sherlock’s or attend to the investigating Sherlock couldn’t do during the day. He wouldn’t make Sherlock tea, or check him for signs of concussion, or write cryptic yet sentimental blog posts about their adventures together. It was over. They were over. Whatever happened after the showers, when John would insist they talk, what once was would never be again.  
  
The door opened and shut. Sherlock went still, listening intently. He heard a soft pile of clothing placed on the sink, and a belt buckle unclasp, and a zip lowered, and clothing fall to the floor. The shower door slid open, and John stepped in.  
  
John reached out and touched the spot on Sherlock’s neck that had been burned by the silver, almost completely healed by now. His eyes stayed lowered at first, as he reached for Sherlock’s shampoo. He squirted some into his palm, and raised his hands to Sherlock’s hair. Gently, he massaged the shampoo into Sherlock’s scalp. Sherlock let his eyes fall closed, let himself feel the ministration of John’s fingers.  
  
“I don’t care,” John whispered. “I don’t care what you are. I know you, the real you. That’s enough.”  
  
“I wish it were,” Sherlock said, afraid to open his eyes. Sherlock brought himself back to the moment that he saw the gun pointed at John, heard the click of the hammer. He’d made a mistake, and in that moment he realised how much John had come to mean to him. Sherlock’s miscalculation had almost ended John’s life.  
  
“It is enough.”  
  
“You can’t have this life with me, John. I can’t have this life with you. You’ll grow to hate me. I’ll get us both killed constantly worrying over you. You’re so fragile, in this human skin.” Sherlock raised his hands and brushed his fingertips against the warm, wet skin of John’s forearms. He felt the muscles flex as John continued to lather. “You’ll always be my weakest point, and I’ll always make enemies. And soon, in a few years, I’ll have to leave London. I can’t stay one place long enough for anyone to notice that I don’t age. We can’t continue on like this.”  
  
“What do you suggest?” John guided his head back into the stream of hot water, carefully shielding his eyes from stray suds.  
  
“There are usually only two choices. Either you must die, which will not happen, or I take all of your memories of me.”  
  
“So you would be dead to me?”  
  
“You couldn’t miss what you didn’t remember.”  
  
“I’d still miss you.” John took his hands back, filled one palm with conditioner, and returned them to Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock kept his eyes shut, but reached back up to rub his fingers up and down John’s arm. “Jimmy . . . you said he shouldn’t have remembered you. Did you try the memory thing on him?”  
  
“Yes. He must have had a surprisingly strong mind. Most people don’t want to remember the terrible things I make them forget. It’s easier that way.”  
  
“Do you honestly think you could overpower my mind, then? I am quite stubborn.”  
  
“John . . .”  
  
“I don’t want to forget. My life before you wasn’t a real life. It was existing. Then you came along and everything changed. I’d rather die than forget you, or the person I am when I’m with you. Keep me with you as long as you can, and I’ll take care of it when I become too much of a liability.”  
  
“You can’t be serious.”  
  
“Open your eyes and look at me.” Sherlock complied, seeing eyes rimmed red with emotion. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. I’m with you to the end. Don’t take that from me.” John tilted Sherlock’s head back to rinse. “I’ve worked it out. I’ve been suspecting something for a while, but now it all makes sense. You’re some sort of vampire. I don’t know what stories are actually fact, but I gather that you can’t be out in sunlight and you do drink blood. You have morals, as much as a vampire can. You only kill killers. Or maybe you just do that because solving murders is fun for you. Either way, you endeavor to avoid taking innocent lives. We solve crimes together, and most of the time we turn the murderer over to the police. But sometimes we lose track at the last minute, and a week later the body turns up in the Thames. The police aren’t very motivated to find a killer’s killer, or Mycroft covers some of it up. Either way, there is one less murderer in the world and everyone is happy.”  
  
“He isn’t my brother,” Sherlock said. “He’s actually my great nephew. The only human still alive that knows what I am, aside from you. I can’t wait for him to age enough for me to refer to him as my uncle.”  
  
“Tell me,” John said as he reached for the soap. “You said there are usually two options for people that know about you. That means there is an unusual third option.”  
  
“I’ve done well with teaching you to be observant,” Sherlock said. He took the shampoo from the shelf and poured some into his hand, to return the favor. “The third option is to change you.”  
  
“What? Make me into a vampire?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, and started to work a lather into John’s hair. John’s own hands, once intending to wash Sherlock’s body, simply rested on Sherlock’s ribs.  
  
“What’s it like?”  
  
“Being a vampire or being changed?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
“The only way I can describe the change is dying then coming back to life. I’ve heard it doesn’t have to be painful, if the creator doesn’t intend for it to be. In some ways, I feel more alive than I did as a human. My senses are all amplified. I can hear the ticking of the clock in your bedroom upstairs right now. I can see your heart beating under your skin. I can tell where you’ve been by the smells that hang on your clothes and hair. But there is always the thirst. The older I get, the longer I can go. Months, now, if I supplement with a few pints of pilfered donated blood in between. I’ve met others that have lived so long they can survive off a single drinking per year. But most of all, there is the constant boredom. One can never grow too close to a human, and you understand why. Most of my kind wouldn’t bother anyway. They see themselves as more evolved, higher on the food chain, and wouldn’t interfere in the affairs of humans anymore than you would care about the social lives of cows. Boring.”  
  
“You don’t think you’d get bored of me after a few decades?”  
  
“I’d never be bored of you. No more than you’d ever grow bored of danger.”  
  
“If my choices are die, forget, or change, I choose change. And not for the danger or the power. I choose it because I choose you. No matter what.”  
  
John leaned in, slowly, and locked eyes with Sherlock. He gave him the chance to back away, to change the subject, but Sherlock didn’t move away. Instead he lowered his head to close the distance between their lips.  
  
John was warm, and he tasted the way Sherlock had always imagined. In his second life, Sherlock had never touched another in this way. In his first life, he had a brief stint with another man, but every liaison had been under a shroud of secrecy and shame. Yet here was John, so strong for a human, but so fragile in his woundable skin, offering up so much more than his body. Sherlock opened his mouth and tentatively slicked his tongue over John’s lips.  
  
Responding eagerly, John parted his lips and accepted Sherlock inside. He slid his hands to Sherlock’s back and drew him closer. Sherlock felt John’s cock brush against his leg, rock hard and eager. He took his soapy hand, and slid it between their bodies. John jumped at first contact, but moaned as Sherlock closed his fist around him and gave a few exploratory tugs.  
  
“God, I’ve wanted this,” John said, breathless.  
  
“You’ll have it. Daily until the sun burns out, if you like,” Sherlock said. John’s felt different than his, more girth. And the muscle memory of stroking without the accompanying sensation was fascinating to Sherlock.  
  
“This’ll be over in no time if you don’t slow down,” John panted, sliding his slick hands down to Sherlock’s arse.  
  
“This is the prelude. The concert will take place downstairs presently.” Sherlock leaned down to whisper the words into John’s ear.  
  
John cursed under his breath as Sherlock’s pace quickened. Sherlock marveled at how he could feel the approaching climax. John’s hands tightened, fingers digging into flesh. He dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder, to watch Sherlock realized. The thought caused him to falter momentarily, but he soon recovered and worked John until he came with a cry of release.  
  
As John regained his breath, Sherlock gently washed and rinsed him. He paid special attention to his hands, removing any gunshot residue that may have been left behind. Not that the police would ever finger them for the crime. He had spent his second life keeping up with police forensics so he could always stay a step ahead. He shut off the water.  
  
“What about you?” John said.  
  
“The water won’t stay hot forever,” Sherlock explained. “And I like to be downstairs well before sunrise.”  
  
~~~  
  
“So you have another flat, in the same building?” John asked as Sherlock opened the door for him.  
  
“Officially, it’s a laboratory. I told Mrs. Hudson that I keep things down here that make the things I do to her kitchen upstairs look civilized. It’s lightproof, secure, and I added sound insulation.” Sherlock looked around at the believable (and practical) laboratory he’d made in the sitting room with an expression of trepidation.  
  
“What about the bedroom?” John asked softly, lacing his fingers with Sherlock’s. The back of his hand brushed against the soft flannel of pyjama pants.  
  
“This way.”  
  
It didn’t look dissimilar to Sherlock’s bedroom upstairs, except there was no window to let in the light from the street lights. The only light in the room came from two lamps on either side of the bed. The bed itself was covered with a faded blue quilt. Sherlock drummed his fingers unrhythmically against John’s hand.  
  
“Come here,” John whispered, pulling the taller man closer. “Don’t be nervous.”  
  
“I’m not,” Sherlock snapped.  
  
“I’m not either,” John said, seeing through him. “I trust you.”  
  
“You don’t think you should take some time?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“No amount of time could change my mind. I’ll always choose you. Now, come here.”  
  
A quick, chaste, kiss was followed by another, each one growing longer and deeper. John felt a swell of satisfaction when Sherlock’s erection pressed against his leg. He held Sherlock close with his right hand cradling his neck, and brushed his left across the tented fabric. Sherlock positively growled at the contact.  
  
“Bed.” John had meant to make that a question, but the heady sense of accomplishment at turning mad, brilliant Sherlock into a man of such need clouded his mind. He needed Sherlock on the bed. Naked. Now.  
  
Stripping Sherlock, though, slowed his momentum. First, he skimmed his hands under the thin material of his t-shirt and pushed it up as his fingers traced the rise and fall of each muscle and rib of Sherlock’s side. He could have pushed the pyjama bottoms down as they were, but instead he kissed the pale skin of Sherlock’s shoulder while he pulled the tie apart. John pulled the quilt down and guided Sherlock down to the sheet beneath. He pulled off his clothes, save his pants, and crawled into bed as well.  
  
“Look at you,” John whispered in awe. “You’re beautiful.”  
  
“This is about you, John. If I’m going to do it tonight, I . . .”  
  
John cut him off with a finger to lips. “Let me do this, first. Then you can have me any way you want. I trust you. Trust me.”  
  
He expected more of a fight from Sherlock, and was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock reclined, resting his head against a pillow, and gave John complete access.  
  
John pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s hair, still damp from their shared shower. He moved, kissing and nipping, to the slope of Sherlock’s forehead, down to each of his closed eyes, over to his ears, and down his jaw until he reached eager lips once more. There was one spot John found on Sherlock’s neck, the side that hadn’t been burned, that made him squirm beneath John’s exploring hands. If time hadn’t been an issue, he would have teased out the sensation longer, but John knew he’d have years to explore this body. He continued down across the skin of the chest, sucking first one then the other nipple into his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers tightened their grip on John’s back. Down below the dip of ribs to the soft skin of the abdomen. Vulnerable here, even as a supernatural creature, John marveled at the pliant muscle stretched across vital organs. Sherlock’s hips rose slightly, anticipating the next destination of John’s exploring mouth.  
  
“I haven’t actually done this bit before,” John whispered as he slid Sherlock’s pants down his legs. “But I want to. I’ve thought about it so many times.”  
  
He started with soft kisses against Sherlock’s inner thigh, and watched the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as he panted. Then John wrapped his hand around Sherlock and kissed the tip. Satisfied with the moan Sherlock gave, John licked around the head before taking it into his mouth.  
  
“John, please . . .” Sherlock pleaded.  
  
In response, John took more into his mouth, and slowly started to pump his hand up and down Sherlock’s shaft. Sherlock rested one hand on the back of John’s head and fisted the sheet with the other. Taking the hint, John moved his mouth up and down with the rhythm of his hand until Sherlock was writhing beneath him.  
  
“Stop,” Sherlock sputtered. “I’m too close.”  
  
John pulled away and looked up at the mad genius. He was pleased with the dark mess of curls framing Sherlock’s pale face, obviously made into disarray by tossing his head back and forth against his pillow.  
  
“I’m going to finish with you,” Sherlock explained after a few deep breaths. He sat up and touched John’s face gingerly. “First I will take from you, but I will make it as pleasurable as possible. Then you will take from me and sleep. In three days, the change will be complete.”  
  
“I trust you,” John said again, as much for his benefit as Sherlock’s.  
  
Sherlock didn’t take the time John had, instead pushing John against the the bed and holding him down at the hip. With his other hand, Sherlock pulled something out of the bedside drawer. The next thing John felt was wet heat encircling him.  
  
He said Sherlock’s name, shouted it, as he was sucked into his mouth. John buried his hand in dark, curly hair and spread his legs farther apart to allow Sherlock to settle in between. Sherlock alternated between long strokes with his hand, teasing licks around the glans, and sucking John into his mouth. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d had two orgasms in such a short amount of time, but he could feel the second one approaching.  
  
Sherlock pushed John’s right leg a little higher, and John saw a flash of silver followed by a tinge of pain. Through his eyelashes Sherlock looked up into John’s startled blue eyes, then moved his mouth from John’s cock to the slice on his thigh.  
  
Pain, yes; but the pleasure of Sherlock’s hand working him took the edge off. He could hear Sherlock gulping, could feel himself growing weaker, but John didn’t feel fear. No, it was ecstasy. Nearing climax but never fully achieving it, John gave himself over to the sensation of Sherlock’s mouth and hands touching his body. His vision started to blur, and John decided that he didn’t care what happened. If he died in Sherlock’s hands with this feeling of almost-but-not-quite pulling his body apart, he’d at least die happy. John heard words, but they lost meaning in the sensation of white heat starting low in his belly and spreading throughout his body like fire.  
  
“Drink, John,” Sherlock repeated.  
  
John opened his mouth and tasted Sherlock’s skin. Out of it oozed warm liquid. Not blood, John decided. At least not how he remembered blood tasting the last time he was hit hard enough to split his lip. When was that? Some adventure or another sparked by Sherlock Holmes and the word “danger”. But this, this wasn’t bitter and metallic. This was thick and sweet. This was like tea after an all-nighter or a beer with friends after spending so many days alone. It was the taste of something John didn’t just want, but something he absolutely needed.  
  
He felt life returning to him as the warmth he swallowed seemed to jump into his veins. The sensation of Sherlock’s other hand, wrapped around both their cocks, pumping them together, came to John as Sherlock pulled his wrist away from John’s lips.  
  
“Come for me, John. One more time.” Sherlock’s deep voice was thick with needs fulfilled and other needs on the cusp of completion.  
  
John cried out as Sherlock’s plea pushed him over the edge, and Sherlock fell too, with John’s name on his lips.  
  
As he returned to the present, John watched his (lover? boyfriend? creator?) wash them both a second time with a cloth soaked with hot water.  
  
“Vampires don’t bite?” John asked, feeling lightheaded.  
  
“Barbaric. And messy,” Sherlock replied. “I’ll teach you to drink like a gentleman.”  
  
“Look forward to it,” John said.  
  
“Sleep now,” Sherlock said as he tucked the quilt around John’s body. “We’ll have time for that.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like it narissasaunders! This is my first Vamplock, so I hope the vamplaws of this universe and level of gore are alright. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, everyone else! I hope you enjoyed it, too.


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